


sweet

by Ericine



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: (with a side of sexytimes), 20 Years of UST, Comfort, Cooking, F/M, Fluff, Food Kink, Growing Up, Kink Meme, Love in All Forms, Macaroons, Sugar, have your insulin shots ready because these two are too cute for your health, sunrise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-05
Updated: 2014-12-05
Packaged: 2018-02-28 06:05:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2721533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ericine/pseuds/Ericine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam and Cam have been circling in and out of each others' paths for more than twenty years. When Sam comes back from Atlantis, she's different. Maybe Cam is too. Maybe that's a damn good thing. Written for the Stargate Kink Meme. Prompt: Sam/Cam, food play.</p>
            </blockquote>





	sweet

Sam’s different when she comes back from Atlantis. Not tougher—because she’s always been tougher than anyone around her gave her credit for. Not sharper—because Cam remembers the multi-edged idealist from more than a decade ago, and Sam’s not her anymore. More solid, maybe? Her pride’s been wounded by the relieving of her Atlantis command—anyone can see that—but she’ll recover. She’s always worn her job well, grew into her Atlantis command so organically, but she’s been at home in her skin for a while. Cam knows from his years of commanding her (what little that was worth) that there was a time before their paths met up again, a time that was both turbulent (and he’s heard the stories about Daniel, Janet, and Jacob, and SG-1 gets points for getting out of bed in the morning, but _damn_ ) and somehow steadying.

He’s not meant to know about those. There are some things, he’s learned, that will stay between Sam, Teal’c, Daniel, and Jack, and he knows this, for the same reason that he and Vala have come to understand each other in a way the others can approach but can’t quite match. Still, as much as he doubted he could command her before, he knows he can’t now. This Sam stands tall but steady, instructs the new scientists in the labs with a tone that’s both encouraging and firm. There’s confidence when she walks, and it’s different from Vala’s. Vala sashays. Vala works with attention. Sam’s just comfortable.

He likes it.

It’s the tall, comfortable Sam, hair tied back in that perfect little braid, who shows up in his office doorway while he’s sitting, trying to decide if he’s vending machine hungry or commissary hungry. She leans against the doorframe (that’s something she hasn’t done before— _leaned_ on things), and informs him that he owes her breakfast.

In his mind, he always owes her breakfast. It’s an idea that took her a while to get used to, but she’s never not taken him up on his offer.

“Right. We can go tomorrow,” he says, and she doesn’t laugh, but her face lights up—eyes, mouth, and long golden hair—when she informs him that it’s nearly 05:00.

“Sweet baby Jane,” Cam groans, running his hand over his face, “and here, I thought my back was knotting up because I’ve been getting old.”

“We’re all old,” Sam says warmly, walking into the room and kneading her hands into his back like it was something she’d been planning on doing all along. It feels wonderful. “Now, come on, I’m an expert in what happens if you stay in the mountain for too long.” She drops her voice into a conspiratorial whisper that would have made Vala proud. “You’ll never leave.”

Cam grins, rolls his shoulders, and stands up (he misses her hands already). “I’ll do you one better, Sam,” he says. “I’ll cook for you.”

* * *

The sun’s barely rising, casting Cam’s kitchen in red, orange, and gold when he scoops the scrambled eggs onto a plate, tops it off with the bacon, and checks the oven timer one more time. “You want toast?” he asks. They’re having eggs, bacon, and macaroons for breakfast, but the idea of French toast comes suddenly, an inspiration.

He hears a shuffle, the sound of plastic hitting plastic, and then Sam walks into the kitchen. It’s getting chilly (it’s mid-November, and it’s looking like Cam might actually make it home for Thanksgiving _and_ Christmas this year, a thought he quickly pushes away because even thinking something like that could cause something literally earth-shattering to happen—Sam had taught him that, and he’s chalked it up to superstition, but Sam isn’t the superstitious type—it’s just one of the truths about the warped reality that is the SGC), so she’s still wearing her leather jacket, but she shrugs it off as she walks into the kitchen, which has always been the warmest place in anywhere he’s ever lived.

Her feet, Cam notes, are bare.

“Sorry, what was that?” asks Sam, and she’s draping her jacket over a chair, shaking her hair out of that little braid, and her hair’s spilling out into golden waves that do something fantastic in the dawn’s early light. She smiles, close-lipped, but that doesn’t stop the happiness from filling her face. “I think your modem was broken. It should work better now.”

He had been getting spotty Wi-Fi lately, but that’s something he’d put on the backburner. He was rarely home, even these days, with the galaxy somewhat at peace ( _don’t think about it_ ).

She’s amazing. “Um, thanks,” Cam says. “Toast?”

Sam exhales, just short of a groan, and Cam’s suddenly thankful for the shot of fatigue that’s settling in because the sun’s coming up because that sound slips straight past his ears and into his groin. “Your French toast? _God, yes_. Can I help?”

Cam would never say no to that. He nods, and Sam washes her hands while he gets the bread out of the refrigerator (old trick to make bread last longer when he leaves in the morning and never knows what time—or how many weeks will pass—before he comes back). When he stops to open the bread, her hands on back on his shoulder blades, warm from the water, thumbs digging into knotted muscle.

He grins involuntarily. This tension, whatever this is between them, has always been there, through school and wars and alien bullshit, but what little action they’ve taken on it has never taken away from the fact that they’ve known each other a long damn time. She’s become a part of him. He wonders if he’s a part of her, too, and he indulges for a moment, the pleasantness of the thought that he had that tiny corner of her thoughts while she’s been out in the galaxy doing extraordinary things.

Sam works the knot for a while, and Cam wonders if they teach massage classes in Atlantis—it wouldn’t be a bad idea for the SGC to get some of those skills here on Earth—but then Sam’s sliding her hands down off his shoulders, squeezing his biceps. “You need sugar and cinnamon, don’t you?”

He’s wearing a t-shirt, and he can feel her warm breath on his shoulder. “Second cabinet,” says Cam. “Brown, cane, or white—your choice.”

Sam presses her lips to the back of Cam’s neck. “Thanks.”

Jesus, she’s full of surprises today.

When they served on SG-1 together, nothing happened, but they’d grown into each other’s spaces quietly, cooking for each other, heading out for after-work beers, seeking each other out for breaks in the mountain. When Sam had left for Atlantis, they’d thrown her a going away party. She was, naturally, the first to leave, but Cam had pulled her to her feet and asked for a dance. Come on, Sam. I’ll let you lead. She’d laughed, taken his hand, and told him that she didn’t mind when he led. He’d twirled her, and she’d pulled him close when the song finished.

She’d grown up then, he realized. Maybe this was her way of telling him that.

Maybe he’d grown up, too.

She’s opening all three containers of sugar, thin sweater falling a little bit off one shoulder, testing each sugar with the tip of her little finger, when he comes up behind her, wrapping his arms around her low on her stomach, burying his face in those little golden waves as he kisses the side of her neck.

She freezes, just for a moment, before she exhales, a little noise of pleasure, and puts the sugar jar down, leaning back into his chest.

“So,” says Cam, and he notes her shudder when his lips brush her neck, “tell me, did you have this in mind when you asked me for breakfast, or did you just get this idea?”

Sam slides her hands down, pressing just her forearms against his. “It was a good idea I've had for a long time, but it seems to be getting better,” she answers. When she turns around, ass bumping into his crotch just a little, she’s smiling. “I didn’t know what you would do, though.”

“Sam—” he mumbles, but he’s already leaning forward to kiss her. The kitchen smells like cinnamon and coconut, and he can taste the sugar on her tongue when she opens her mouth against his, a warm welcome for his tongue. God, it’s been so long since they’ve kissed, but that was a different kiss in a different time, rougher, scratching a wartime itch. She’d dragged her short nails across his back, grasping, scratching as he fucked her against a cold shower stall wall, biting into each other’s shoulders to keep quiet, a stolen moment to relieve the pressure of war, of calming that adrenaline rush that lingered for hours after soaring miles above the ground.

She’s deepening the kiss, wrapping her legs around his ankles, and he takes the cue, lifting her up onto the counter, pushing aside the jars of sugar. She somehow takes off her shirt and unhooks her bra (smooth, dark blue) in one go, and he’s trying to take off his, when she leans back and laughs, looking happy, looking free, and _fuck_ if it’s not the most erotic thing he’s ever seen.

He drops his shirt to the floor and presses himself up against her again, and she wraps her legs around him, grinds into him, delicious heat between their bare skin. Maybe that’s why he doesn’t notice her arm leave his back and reappear at his mouth, covered in sugar crystals.

He cocks his head at her, just a fraction (Teal’c would be impressed), and her smile’s sweet, but there’s something devilish behind it that he loves (Sam’s a sweet girl, but he’s never for a second thought of her as a _good girl_ , despite what others have thought. He opens his mouth and closes his lips around her finger.

She picked the cane, Cam notes, and God, it tastes good. He circles her finger with his tongue, a hint of what might be (will, that damn part of his mind whispers, but he quiets it), and she makes that noise again, that exhale that’s not-quite-moan, and he reaches next to her, rubbing his fingers together (rubbing himself between her legs, and she sighs, and every hint of fatigue he’d had before is now gone somewhere far away) and dipping two of them into the closest open jar (it’s the brown sugar). He lifts one to her mouth, and she takes it with a purposeful flash of her tongue, and he rubs against her again where he’s cradled between her thighs. She sucks him clean (“Fuck, Sam,” he says, and she slides her mouth down his finger until her mouth meets his hand), opens her mouth for the other finger, but he drags her hand down, sliding past her lips, down to one beautiful breast. He smears the sugar gently around her nipple as she watches him, eyes bright and amused.

He lets her finger go when he leans down and takes her breast into his mouth. The sugar’s almost too sweet against his tongue, but Sam leans her head back (it thumps quietly against the cabinet behind her, but Cam figures they’re both overlooking things like that right now) and moans then, full of comfort and longing all at once, and Cam has to look up at her then, cheek against her breast, Sam leaning down with that perfect hair falling around her chin. He feels, that thought that he won’t, shouldn’t, allow to surface because _this_ , this happening here right now, whatever it is, is a culmination of sorts, and it’s _too damn important_. The feeling surges through his chest, all the way out to his limbs, to his fingertips, which are splayed along Sam’s sides.

The over alarm goes off then.

They both groan.

“Macaroons,” Cam says, because he’s still trying to get enough blood back up to his head (he’s oh so hard, and there’s no point in hiding it).

Sam reaches down next to his mouth, swipes an arm across her breast to get off the sugar grains, and licks the side of her hand (how, _how_ , are they both still wearing pants?).

“Get it in a minute,” she says, and hugs Cam close then, folding her arms around him, resting her elbows on his shoulders and her hands on the back of his head. Around them, the room is lit up pure orange now, and Cam kisses the first bit of her skin he can get his lips on (her breastbone), and she responds by pulling back and kissing him softly, chastely (but it’s no less wonderful) on his mouth. “It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?” she says softly, and she’s pulled back just enough to make a clear sound, but her lips still brush against Cam’s.

“It has,” replies Cam, and the thoughts come then, and he doesn’t stop them. He loves her, loves her in every incarnation (in _this_ timeline, _this_ universe, at least), in every way possible. When it comes to Sam Carter, he just _loves_.

So he says it, then, because it’s not something they haven’t said to each other before, though the meaning might have been different then. Or maybe it’s the same. They don’t really make distinctions like that. She smiles that smile again, the one that radiates across her face and brightens everything around it, before sliding down off the counter (down _him_ , and God, she’s _evil_ sometimes, but he loves her for it, loves her, told her, and the world didn’t end).

“You want to get the macaroons, then?” she asks, casual as anything. “I think we’ll need to eat if I’m going to be here all day.”

As he’s pulling his shirt back on (cooking with too much exposed skin is never, ever a good idea, and he still has a pan of French toast to start) and Sam’s setting all three of the jars of sugar next to the bread (she hasn’t bothered with her shirt, and Sam Carter is half-naked in the sunrise in his kitchen, and he doesn’t know how he’s gotten this lucky), he feels no urgency. It’s taken them so long, this long, to get here, and he doesn't want to, wouldn’t want to, change it for anything.

**Author's Note:**

> It's not quite the prompt, but it spiraled way out of my control and turned out quite nicely on its own. I think it captures the spirit of the prompt, so I hope whoever posted this prompt likes it!


End file.
